Wait Until Dark, page 8
Five minutes later, she sank into the tub, letting the warm water envelop her, wash the tension from her muscles.
While she relaxed, she reviewed everything that had happened at lunch, more confused than ever by her half-siblings and their motives. Correction: not the motives themselves, but to what extremes those motives would drive them.
They wanted her gone. That much was as obvious now as it had been from day one. Were they behind that phone call she'd gotten? Was today's lunch simply a ploy to see if their scare tactics had worked? And, as a backup plan, had they elicited the help of a doctor to gain her compassion and send her packing?
It was sickening to think that anyone, even the Falkners, could convince a doctor to compromise his ethics and lie. Then again, they had untold wealth, power and influence. They probably contributed millions a year to Rolling Hills. That kind of money bought a lot of loyalty.
On the flip side, Stuart hadn't looked happy when she'd called his bluff, announced she'd be contacting Dr. Farley. So maybe the doctor wasn't involved. Maybe Stuart had made up the whole story.
She'd find out soon enough. She'd call Dr. Farley the minute she got out of the tub. If she jumped on this, Stuart wouldn't have time to prep the doctor for her call. She'd checkmate her half-brother, beat him at his own game.
That idea was scrapped a half-hour later when she phoned Rolling Hills, only to learn that Dr. Farley was off this week and wouldn't be available until Monday. Coincidence? Maybe.
Feeling restless and out of sorts, Lindsey pulled on a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt, then glanced at the bedroom clock. Five-thirty. Most of the workers would be gone, but a few of them, including the foreman, would still be finishing up. She'd kill some time before heading over there.
She perched at the edge of a chair and wrote a postcard to her mother in Paris - a cheery note that didn't so much as hint at anything unpleasant. She stamped it and scooped up her purse. She'd drive to the post office and drop the postcard in its outside mailbox. After that, she'd grab a sandwich, stroll around the more touristy area of Newport, then drive back to the site and check out the day's work. By that time she'd have the solitude she needed to properly assess how things were going. Hopefully, she'd also have worked off her restlessness, and would feel renewed and calmer.
It was almost eight o'clock when she rounded the drive to the manor. Dusk was settling over the area, but the sky wasn't completely dark yet, and there was more than enough light for her to see her surroundings. The top of the driveway was devoid of trucks, and the house was quiet, a sign that all the workers had gone home.
Good. She'd look over the place, see where the restoration was heading and if it coincided with the finished product she visualized in her mind's eye.
Again, she paused when she got out of the car, glancing around to see if she was alone. But the sensation of being watched was no longer there. Thank heavens.
She let herself in, for once grateful that workers always seemed to leave a slew of lights on when they went home at day's end. In this case, walking into a brightly lit manor was a welcome relief. It made her feel less vulnerable. Just to be safe, however, she locked the door before strolling through the entranceway and across the main level.
To the layperson's eye, the place was in shambles. There was plaster dust everywhere, along with woodplanks, nails, and tools. She ignored the mess, stepping over everything and scanning the area, studying it through narrowed eyes. The work had progressed beautifully for day one. The kitchen had been ripped out and was down to bare studs. The plumbing fixtures in the downstairs bathrooms had been removed. And the wall separating the sitting room and salon was completely gone, the scaffolding having been moved to the other side of the house where the wall dividing the conservatory into two smaller greenhouse-type rooms was scheduled to be torn down first thing tomorrow.
Lindsey walked in that direction, imagining her mother's excitement when she saw the grand, fabulous conservatory that would soon be hers. She'd be in her glory. Starting this year, she'd be able to indulge in her beloved gardening even during New England's most brutal winters.
The door leading to the first greenhouse was shut, and there was no light peeking out from under it, almost as if the room had yet to be disturbed. That was odd. Usually, an experienced construction crew set up the next area in which they'd be working before they left, so everything would be ready to go when they arrived in the morning. She hoped the crew wasn't running behind schedule, although she saw no signs that they were. The sitting room wall was already down, and the scaffolding had been moved into its new position.
She eased open the door and peeked inside. Ah, false alarm. Everything was as it should be. All the necessary tools and drop cloths had been lined up neatly for tomorrow's leveling project. For whatever reason, someone had just thought to turn off the light and shut the door behind him.
She was just about to retrace her steps when she felt the vibrations above her, heard the sound of grating metal. Her head jerked up, and her eyes widened as she saw the oncoming disaster.
She turned and lunged into the hall, barely clearing the point of impact. Dropping into a squat, she curled close to the wall, covering her head for protection.
An instant later the entire scaffolding crashed to the floor.
Lindsey didn't move until the deafening noise had stopped. Then she rose, her legs shaking as she pivoted to survey the damage. The floor was a mass of wood and metal. A few seconds earlier and she'd have been part of that mangled heap. The whole structure would have caved in on her.
She squeezed her eyes shut, whether to shut out the sight or her thoughts, she wasn't sure.
Had this been an accident, or an attempt to hurt her? She'd never seen scaffolding give way like that, certainly not from the mere vibration of a door.
A door she'd been puzzled to find shut.
Sell the manor, her ominous phone caller had demanded. You'll get rich and stay healthy.
Dear God, had that actually been a threat on her life?
She had to get out of here.
The drive back to Nicholas's house was a blur. Lindsey's hand shook as she unlocked the door, and she double-bolted it behind her.
She went into the great room, dropped onto the futon. Maybe she should call the police. But what would she report? That she'd been the victim of a threatening phone call and a near-miss? One could be a crank, the other a construction accident.
No. There wasn't any proof. And they'd ask lots of questions - questions that would open up a big-time can of worms that would result in scandal and social embarrassment for the Falkners. She couldn't be responsible for that, not without hard evidence.
But in her gut she knew what had just happened was no accident. Skilled and experienced professionals such as the contractors she'd hired didn't make these mistakes. That scaffolding had to have been tampered with for it to collapse like that.
Which meant someone was setting a trap for the next person who touched the greenhouse door.
Tracy and Stuart both knew that someone was she.
Today at lunch, she'd specifically mentioned her intentions to go back to the manor tonight. Then she'd sensed that someone was following her. Had either one or both her half-siblings hired someone to keep track of her whereabouts and leave a surprise welcome for her when she dropped by the manor this evening?
If so, this was no longer a game of cat and mouse. This was a cold-blooded attempt to hurt her. To hurt her - or worse.
The phone in the kitchen rang, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Bolting to her feet, she whipped around and stared at the telephone, trying to decide whether or not to answer.
It continued to ring.
Sucking in her breath, she crossed over and lifted the receiver from its cradle. "Hello?" she said tentatively.
"Lindsey?" It was Nicholas's voice, and it was taut with strain. "Are you all right?"
"Yes. No. I don't know." Her voice sounded shaky, high and thin to her own ears. At the same time, she wondered how Nicholas knew she was in trouble. Had he found out about the accident already? "What have you heard?"
"Heard? Nothing. It just took you forever to answer the phone. I know you're not asleep; I saw you go inside a few minutes ago. And I know what kind of shape you were in this afternoon. Now you sound worse. What's going on?"
She blinked to clear her head. "What do you mean you saw me go inside a few minutes ago?"
A brief pause. "I'm parked down the street. I was waiting for you to get back. I need to talk to you. But I know I promised not to show up on the doorstep. So I waited to be invited in." Another pause. "Am I invited in?"
Lindsey felt tears of relief burn behind her eyes. "Yes. Please. Come in."
There was another hesitation, then a click and a hum as the connection was broken. By the time she replaced the receiver and started for the front hall, she heard Nicholas's BMW roar up the driveway. She unbolted the door and yanked it open.
Nicholas was striding up the walk. His gaze swept her as he mounted the steps, stepped inside the house.
"You're white as a ghost," he announced tersely. "You're also covered with plaster. And you've been crying. Sweetheart, what is it?"
Maybe it was the endearment. Maybe it was her frazzled state of mind. Either way, she didn't think. She simply went to him, seeking some measure of comfort. "I was at the manor. The scaffolding collapsed. It missed me by inches."
His fingers bit into her shoulders, his worried stare delved inside her. "Are you hurt?"
Mutely, she shook her head.
He gathered her close, his embrace tightening as if to offer her his strength. "Tell me what happened."
She was too strung out to censor her words. She simply poured out the entire story, omitting nothing. "I don't think it was an accident," she concluded.
"I agree. Accidents like that don't just happen."
Lindsey swallowed. "Stuart and Tracy both knew I was going back to the manor tonight. They were the only ones I told."
"Not quite." Nicholas drew back, tipping up her chin with his forefinger. "You also told me. I was at that lunch, too, remember? Which means I could just as easily have rigged the scaffolding as Tracy or Stuart. I could also have been part of their whole lunch setup. Don't forget, if you caved in to Stuart's wishes, you'd sell me the manor, and I'd get to build my condos there. I've been torturing myself about that since we left the restaurant, wondering if I was back on your list of suspects. I need an answer - now more than ever. Do you think I'm involved? Or do you know in your heart I'd never hurt you?"
She shook her head slowly, seeing the anguish on Nicholas's face and wanting to erase it. "I know you'd never hurt me," she replied softly. "This morning when I said I trusted you, I meant it. When I heard your voice on the phone just now, I almost wept with relief. All I wanted was to run to you - for help, for comfort. I don't know why, but - "
"Don't you?" His tone was husky now, his expression still intense, but in an entirely different way. "Funny, I know exactly why."
He cupped her face and slowly lowered his head, giving her more than enough time to pull away. She didn't. She rose up to meet him, tiny shivers rippling through her as his mouth covered hers. The kiss was deep and drugging, Nicholas's lips nudging hers apart, wasting no time on preliminaries, demanding what she was more than willing to give. Whatever reservations she harbored based on who he was, how he'd lived, none of them mattered now. All she wanted was to lose herself in this unnamed emotion that had been building between them from the moment they'd met. She was tired of fighting. She just wanted to feel.
Nicholas sensed the change in her instantly, knew she'd abandoned her emotional suit of armor. His fingers sifted through her hair, tightened around the nape of her neck and, with a discernible effort, he dragged his mouth away, raised his head. "Lindsey." His eyes were smoky with passion, his breathing unsteady. "You've got to want this. Really want this. Not only to escape. And not only for tonight. Once we're together - I don't plan to let you go."
"That's convenient," she murmured, a soft smile touching her lips. "Because I'm staying at your house." Her hands glided up his shirtfront, slid around his neck. "And tonight, so are you."
He caught her wrist, brought her palm to his lips. "You're sure?"
She knew exactly what he was asking. This wouldn't be a one-night stand. It would be a whole lot more. "Very."
Without another word, he scooped her into his arms and headed purposefully toward the stairs. Those he took two at a time, rounding the landing and veering toward the master bedroom. He laid her on his bed, following her down and capturing her mouth for another hungry, searching kiss. He paused only long enough to drag her T-shirt over her head and throw it carelessly to the carpeted floor.
"I've wanted this from the first moment I saw you," he muttered, burning a trail of kisses down her throat, his fingers shifting to unhook the front clasp of her bra. "Keeping my hands off you has been hell."
He pushed the scrap of silk aside, visually drinking her in for a brief minute before lowering his head, surrounding one taut nipple with his lips. Lindsey gasped at the jolt of pleasure that speared through her, arching reflexively closer. He anchored her with his arm, brought her more fully to his mouth, and began an unbearable rhythm that drove her wild. His tongue lashed across her nipple, his lips tugged and released, tugged and released, until Lindsey heard herself cry out, her loins clenching tighter with each pull of his lips.
"Nicholas." Blindly, she reached for him, yanking at his shirt until he sat up, tore it off and threw it aside, then drew her up and against him.
Lindsey's breath caught in her throat. The contact was excruciating, his bare skin against hers, and she rubbed herself against him, her nipples contracting further at the warm, abrasive feel of his chest hair rasping across her skin. Her head came up, and she stared at him in wonder, seeing the heat in his eyes, the muscle working violently in his jaw. He wanted her every bit as much as he'd said. And he was trying to slow down, for her sake.
His palm slid around the nape of her neck, and he brought her mouth back to his, kissing her deeply as he lowered her to the bed. He unzipped her jeans, hooked his fingers inside her panties, and pulled them both down and off, taking her socks and shoes with them. His hands skimmed up her legs, caressed her thighs, his palm covering the tawny nest between them. His fingers eased lower, slipping inside her and touching her in a way that nearly brought her off the bed.
Lindsey's heart was slamming against her ribs, her body drunk on sensation. Vaguely, she wondered if it was always this wonderful. She doubted it. There was something electric between her and Nicholas. Something that made her lose her mind.
Lose her mind... God, she was being careless.
That awareness triggered a semblance of reason, and she acted on it now, before reason slipped entirely away.
"Nicholas?" Even as she spoke, her hips were lifting, seeking more of his touch. His fingers responded to her unconscious plea, gliding in and out in a prolonged, tantalizing rhythm, his thumb caressing her just where she needed him most.
"You're perfect," he told her fiercely, those amazing eyes blazing with desire, sweat dotting his forehead as he watched her face.
"I... not yet... wait..." she managed, barely able to speak.
"I can't." He stopped only long enough to yank off the rest of his clothes. "I want to, but I can't." He settled himself between her legs, bracing his arms on either side of her head. "Next time, I'll go slower. This time - " He must have seen the reservation in her eyes, because, with a supreme effort, he stopped. "What is it?"
"I'm not taking anything."
A flash of self-deprecating amazement crossed his face. "Lindsey, I'm sorry. Damn, this isn't something I forget." Leaning past her, he hauled open his night table drawer, groped around until he found a box of condoms. He pulled one out, dealing with it with the expertise of a man who was used to doing so. Vaguely, she realized that the implications of that should bother her. They didn't. Somehow she knew what the two of them had together was different.
She studied his body as he loomed over her. He was all power and sheer masculine beauty, and her palms explored him, feeling the hot, hair-roughened texture of his chest, the corded muscles of his shoulders and arms.
He shuddered beneath her touch, moved urgently back into position. "I want you," he ground out, pressing her into the pillows. His chest was rising and falling with each breath, and he lifted her legs to hug his flanks. "I'm about to explode. That's how much I want you." He kissed her again, his tongue taking hers as his body began its penetration.
Her body was screaming for his. She wrapped her arms around his back, and her eyes slid shut as she felt him crowd into her. His hands gripped her bottom, angling her toward him and, with one hard thrust, he pushed all the way inside.
They both felt the resistance give, but Lindsey was so lost in sensation she scarcely winced.
Nicholas was another story. He froze. "Lindsey?"
"Don't stop," she protested weakly. Her nails dug into his back, and she urged him on, shifting to ease his way inside her.
His breath emerged in a hiss, but he fought the instinctive motion of his hips, which were already propelling him deeper. He turned his lips into her hair, his words a harsh rasp of sound. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Later," she whispered. "Please."
Nicholas sucked in his breath, the muscles in his arms bulging with the strain of holding back.
"Please," she repeated. "I'm dying. Make love to me."
